March till Death (Hellsong Book 3)

by Shaun O. McCoy

  Arturus took Calista’s hand. “Live, if you can. Tell our child about me.”

  Calista nodded.

  Arturus walked towards where Calimay’s men were in melee.

  “Where are you going?” Calimay asked suddenly, reaching out and grabbing his wrist.

  Arturus turned back. The Queen’s face was drawn—pale as death in the flickering purple light. She was afraid.

  “I must find my father and my friends,” Arturus said.

  Her fingers let go of his arm, and he started to walk away again.

  “Wait,” Calimay said.

  Arturus looked back over his shoulder at her.

  “That song, the Rose song the slaves sing, did Galen ever teach it to you?” There was a catch in Calimay’s voice.

  Arturus nodded.

  “He never sang anything but the first verse,” Calimay said. “Do you know the rest?”

  There was a shout of a man, perhaps issued with his dying breath, along with the sound of dyitzu fire.

  Arturus shifted his weight, hearing the stones and ironglass grind under his feet. “It is very sad. I know why he did not sing it to you.”

  “Tell me!” Calimay insisted. “Tell me the words. I must know them.”

  Arturus could hear the tune of the slaves singing in the background. He sang the words of the third verse even as they sang the first.

  “Ding, ding, ding, dong. Are these bells of November morn? Where is Rose? She’s dead and gone, sire. Dead and gone, sire. Dead and gone.”

  Calimay’s lower lip began to tremble. She looked as if she was going to cry.

  Father sang that song to her. She must have thought she was Rose. Maybe she is.

  “Calimay!” a priestess was shouting as she ran, robe flaring behind her, down the hallway. “We have to pull back, the Minotaur is coming.”

  Arturus nodded to Calimay, brushed by the priestess, and headed towards the sound of battle.

  Martin’s hamstrings burned more painfully than he had thought possible. Tucker’s men were letting their bullets fly, the reports of their gunshots echoing across the chamber amidst the scattered booms of the Carrion men’s shotguns. At any time previously in his life, Martin doubted that he could have kept running. He’d never had the will to face or overcome pain. This was something new to him—something he’d never been able to do before.

  Bullets fell away from his hoodie’s pocket, scattering along the stones behind him. Martin clutched one hand to his stomach, stemming the flow of ammunition.

  He heard buckshot ripping through the air around him.

  They’ve seen us.

  He had not thought it possible, but he ran faster. He passed Marcus.

  Thirty feet.

  A wave of shot slammed into him. It must have ricocheted off something, the floor or the ceiling, because he could still run.

  Am I okay?

  Twenty.

  There wasn’t any pain.

  So close.

  He had heard about people who’d been shot without noticing it—perhaps he was just one of those people.

  Ten.

  More buckshot flew through the air. Martin dove behind the temple, rolling haplessly over the loose cobblestones.

  Safe!

  Marcus landed beside him, panting.

  “He’s been hit!” Huxley shouted. “Martin’s hit!”

  Martin looked at his shoulder. It looked pretty bad.

  You’ve got to be strong, Martin.

  He waved Huxley off, standing up. “We’ve got bullets,” Martin said. “Come and get ‘em.”

  He reached into his hoodie.

  Jesus, I wish I knew if I was okay.

  The hunters surrounded him. He passed out the ammunition in handfuls. His men were grinning.

  Marcus walked over, peering at his shoulder. “Take off your hoodie.”

  “Hold your fire,” Martin ordered. “Let them think we’re out. They’ll come into the open to try and fight Tucker.”

  “Take off your hoodie,” Marcus repeated.

  Martin pulled it off awkwardly, trying to keep his right arm as still as possible. His shoulder stung a little as he moved it, but it wasn’t bad.

  Marcus wiped at his wound with his fingers, peering closely. “You’re good sir. They just barely pierced the skin.”

  Martin nodded and pulled his hoodie back over his head. “I told you I was fine.”

  Thank fucking God.

  Martin walked up to the edge of the temple and peered around it.

  “They’re getting more daring,” Hux noted, coming up from behind him.

  Some of the Carrion men were half out of the entryway tunnels. They would be easy targets.

  “I’ve got a shot,” one hunter reported.

  “Hold your fire,” Martin said. “They’ll get bolder.”

  And they did. One man darted out into the chamber, fired a shell, and darted back in.

  “Keep holding,” Martin ordered.

  “I could have killed him,” a hunter named Alex said.

  Martin walked up to hunter and put a hand on his shoulder. “You gotta trust me, you saw me fight that God damned Kyle-thing hand to hand. You know I ain’t afraid of shit. You have to trust me.”

  His men obeyed, holding their fire.

  Another Carrion man ran out, let loose a pair of shots and returned. Then came another.

  “Keep holding,” Martin repeated.

  A group of five headed towards Tucker’s tunnels, laying down a barrage covering fire. Two more of the darkly dressed Carrion men followed soon after.

  “Now!” Martin shouted, shouldering his rifle.

  The hunters let loose a volley. The group of five Carrion men were the first to fall under their hail of bullets.

  “Again!” Martin cried.

  The next two fell, and those in the tunnels scurried farther back.

  Martin’s men let up a cheer, and there was an answering cheer from Tucker’s side.

  The cheer died down, and Martin noticed two of the five Carrion men were trying to regain their feet.

  “Corpses?” Martin asked.

  “Fuckers must be wearing some armor or some shit,” Hux said. “Takes more to put ‘em down for some reason.”

  Martin shrugged—then he put a bullet in one’s head. Huxley dropped the other.

  “How many are left?” Martin asked.

  “Maybe fifteen,” Huxley answered. “Tops.”

  We’re going to win. We’re going to fucking win! What would I do if I were them?

  Martin thought about this. He’d hightail it back to the Carrion, is what he’d fucking do. Maybe leave one or two people behind to shoot back and . . .

  Someone was chanting something. Martin could hear it from across the chamber as the call echoed off the cobblestones.

  Martin turned to Hux. “The hell? What’s that bastard saying?”

  Hux shrugged, so Martin turned to Marcus.

  “Don’t know, sir.”

  More of the Carrion men’s voices were picking up the chant.

  “It sounds like . . .” Marcus said. “It sounds like ‘lah-irve.’”

  More of them were chanting, many more than fifteen, and they were singing it louder. Now Martin could hear it clearly.

  “La . . . Ferve. La . . . Ferve.”

  Martin saw a man, covered from head to toe with a grey skin tight suit, coming down the tunnel towards them. Martin shouldered his rifled and fired. For a moment, he was sure he’d hit the figure, but he kept on coming.

  “La . . . Ferve. La . . . Ferve.”

  Even from this distance, Martin could tell the man had an imposing physique. His shoulders were broad, narrowing down to a lean set of hips. Some of Tucker’s men fired, but they missed too. Martin let loose another shot.

  “La . . . Ferve. La . . . Ferve.”

  “Can’t y’all hit nuthin’?” Alex shouted, firing.

  “We’re not missing,” Marcus said.

  “The hell?” Huxley breath
ed.

  Martin set his gun down by his side.

  “La . . . Ferve. La . . . Ferve.”

  The figure pulled out a Ruger pistol and took careful aim at where Tucker’s men were.

  “La . . . Ferve. La . . . Ferve.”

  In the dim light, Aaron could barely make out Kelly’s face as she peered through the small hole in the door. “He’s gone,” she whispered. “I’m sure of it.”

  Aaron heard her, he believed her, but he kept his shotgun raised. “Anything else out there?”

  She moved her head around the hole. “I don’t see anything. There’s one wight, but it’s pretty damn far down there. I think maybe . . .”

  Avery had let his shotgun point down a little, but at her pause, it shot back up to chest level.

  Aaron heard footsteps coming down the hall.

  They said the wights were immune to bullets. My shotgun may be useless.

  Kelly put her back to the wall by the door.

  Aaron pointed to his own eye, and then to the lock, trying to get her to look through it to report.

  She shook her head no and held a finger up to her lips.

  She was probably right, if they just stayed silent, their enemy would pass them by. Then maybe they could escape from Calimay’s complex into—his heart sank—into the wilds of the Carrion.

  The footsteps got louder.

  They’ve got to be right next to our door.

  The footsteps stopped.

  Avery’s eyes went wide. Kelly held her shotgun up in front of her, ready to turn and fire.

  “It’s Galen,” the warrior’s voice announced. “Are you in there?”

  Aaron nearly collapsed with relief. Kelly laughed softly, letting her head fall back against the wall. Avery’s face broke into a momentary smile.

  “We’re fine,” Aaron whispered. “What’s going on?”

  “One Horn,” Galen answered. “Is Turi with you?”

  Kelly sat up straight. “No! I thought he was with you?”

  Galen cursed in some foreign language. “Open the door,” he said.

  “We can’t,” Aaron answered, “it opens outward. Too much rubble.”

  “I’ll get the hinges,” Galen said. “Then we’ll have to find Turi.”

  Hinges? Why didn’t I think of that?

  “I don’t know if Galen would go looking for any of us,” Avery muttered.

  Kelly snorted. “Maybe not you.”

  Aaron expected him to look angry, but Avery laughed.

  He heard metal scraping as Galen worked at a hinge. Aaron heard the pin fall into the gravel outside the door. It was quickly followed by a second one.

  “How did One Horn fucking find us?” Avery asked through the door. “Can he track that well?”

  “I doubt it,” Galen said. “More likely we were betrayed.”

  Galen popped the third hinge. He guided the door into the hallway and then dropped it on the ground. “Grab Turi’s bag and sword.”

  Kelly did so, and then they poured out into the hallway, stepping on the fallen door. Down the dimly lit corridor, only visible in the flashes of light, was the wight Kelly had spotted earlier. It was busy eating something, probably a person.

  “This way,” Galen said.

  He led them down through the rubble filled corridors. A few of the walls had collapsed inwards, and they had to climb over the piles of broken stone bricks.

  “Mostly wights left now. They aren’t hurt by bullets,” Galen said. “As before, you have to hurt them hand to hand or with something made from hellstuff. Anything made in the old world won’t work.”

  “We know,” Avery said.

  “Turi,” Turi’s voice echoed in from around a corner.

  “Turi!” Kelly said, a little too loudly.

  The young man came around the bend. He was cut in a few places, and parts of his skin were still rotten, but otherwise he looked fine.

  Kelly ran into his arms. The young man hugged her back, but his eyes were on his father.

  “What now?” Avery asked.

  Galen’s face was as stoic and expressionless as it had ever been. “Follow me.”

  Arturus felt more comfortable at his father’s side. They walked through the halls Arturus had just come through, but rather than leading them into the heart of the complex, Galen was taking them back into the statue room.

  When they got there, Arturus was horrified.

  The blue light which had once filled the chamber was so dim that those few statues which still stood looked like ominous enemies rather than masterful works of art. Most had fallen to the ground. A stone arm lay at Arturus’ feet, two of its fingers displaced. Cracks had spread through the ironglass ceiling and water was coming down through them.

  “It’s like rain,” Kelly whispered.

  The tapestry which had covered one of the far exits lay torn amidst the ruins. The golden threads which had previously depicted Mithras and the bull were drenched with blood and water. Dyitzu fire had claimed a portion of the fabric. One of the wading pools had been broken open, and the far side of the chamber was covered in an inch-deep puddle. Dead bodies of humans, dyitzu and wights littered the chamber.

  Galen led them, step by cautious step, into the chamber. His MP5 was slung across his back, which made sense to Arturus since there were far more wights than there were dyitzu.

  Arturus saw something move to his right, and there was a splash in the water. He turned to face it, tucking his pistol inside the beltline of the back of his pants. One of the fountains was crumbling. The stone woman who had stood, jug raised, was falling apart. Her jug had split in two, and Arturus could see where the piping, previously hidden, ran through it. She crumbled as he watched, coming down in pieces around the warriors which had supported her—her remains splashing into the water.

  Arturus had looked back to his father. Somehow Galen had known to ignore the statue. He was looking straight ahead, towards something else—towards a human figure, dressed all in black, emerging from the darkness.

  Malkravyan.

  The lone Infidel Friend came slowly forward. Arturus remembered the hatred Malkravyan had for his father. He remembered fearing that the Infidel Friend would kidnap him and take him to see his master. He remembered that the Infidel wanted to use him as bait to draw Saint Wretch across the Erebus.

  “You,” Avery said, “it was you who led the devils here.”

  Malkravyan shook his head. “Not I.”

  For some reason, Arturus believed him.

  The Infidel Friend continued to advance as if there were no obstructions, moving under the pattering fall of the water and over the scattered bits of stone, flesh and statuary. Arturus watched his progress, hypnotized. Galen waited silently for his arrival.

  Arturus felt his hands shaking. Aaron took a step back. His gun was still pointed down, but he was ready to use it. Arturus could hear Avery’s heavy breathing. Kelly was at his side.

  Can Father fight one of these men?

  Malkravyan stopped only a few paces before Galen.

  They stared at each other, two implacable, expressionless soldiers.

  How long have you hated each other? And why?

  Malkravyan unslung the sword which had hung across his back. In the dim blue light, Arturus could barely make out the golden crests of the hound and the vulture which adorned the hilt of the blade. Kelly caught her breath.

  Malkravyan knelt before Galen, bowing his head. The water fell down all around them as the Infidel Friend offered forth the hilt of his blade.

  Kelly gripped Arturus’ arm fiercely.

  “My Lord,” Malkravyan said, “it would be my honor to fight as your vassal today.”

  Galen reached down and drew the sword. It was an infidel forged weapon, made of clearsteel and infused with human blood so as to be able to damage those things that were immune to other substances. It was the blood, frozen still as it swirled through the blade, which seemed to give off its own glow. The sword’s light was dim, but notic
eable beneath the dying, wavy blue illumination of the water that remained above, casting Arturus’ father in its blood colored hue. Arturus had never seen a weapon that Galen couldn’t handle—but this, this was different. Arturus knew his father—he knew that this was the weapon for which Galen was made. This was the thing that Galen had been born to use. This blade was his father’s purpose.

  “Give him the gladius, Turi,” Galen ordered.

  “No need.” Malkravyan drew his own short sword, another Infidel forged blade, but this one was colored blue and had the symbol of an eagle stamped into its crosspiece. “I am ready.”

  Arturus drew his gladius.

  Galen let his MP5 fall off of his shoulder. He tossed it to Aaron. Sword drawn, held comfortably, almost negligently, in his right hand, Galen turned towards the heart of Calimay’s complex.

  “La . . . Ferve. La . . . Ferve”

  The grey figure which Martin assumed was named La’Ferve walked slowly across the chamber, his Ruger pistol, like the ones the Germans used in World War II movies, held before him. He fired round after round into the halls where Tucker’s men were taking cover. Martin wasn’t getting the impression that he was missing. Bullets flew back, but it was as if the man was one of those Kyle-things.

  He’s not, it’s that suit.

  Martin had seen that shade of grey before. It was Icanitzu skin. Somehow the skin kept the Icanitzu’s immunity to bullets even after its death.

  I can still kill him. I just can’t do it with a gun.

  Martin looked to the cobblestones he’d used to kill the Kyle-thing.

  You poor bastard, La’Ferve. If you had come just a few days earlier, I wouldn’t know how to defeat you.

  “Retreat,” Martin ordered his men. “Run back to the corridors. Keep the temple between you and him.”

  “He’ll gun us down!” Marcus said. “He’ll move around the temple and kill us.”

  Martin shook his head. “No he won’t. I’m going to stay here and hold him off. I’m too damn tired to run anyway.”

  “La . . . Ferve. La . . . Ferve”

  Martin peeked around the edge of the temple. La’Ferve was loading another magazine into his pistol, and he was walking away from Tucker’s men now—towards the temple.